Manhattan

Hotel Grand Metropolitan - 44th Street

Same Day

As Raisa entered the lobby, twenty sets of eyes landed on her: American secret-police agents pretending to be guests, lounging on sofas and chairs, sipping coffee, following her – their eyeline skimming the rim of their cup and the tops of their newspapers. From the UN Headquarters she’d been driven back to the hotel and left unsupervised for no longer than it took her to step from the car to the revolving doors of the Grand Metropolitan. At the elevator she half expected one of the officers to step in with her. Contemplating the security around the hotel, she found it excessive, so many officers to guard over schoolchildren. The elevator doors closed. Raisa said:

—Twentieth floor, please.

Without turning around the man operating the elevator gave a small nod. She was certain he was an agent despite being dressed in hotel livery. She studied his peculiar uniform, red with white trim down the legs. He was an unlikely looking spy, and she wondered if her anxieties were running away with her. She was seeing spies everywhere.

Trying to focus on what was real, rather than dangers imagined, she told herself that preparations for the concert had gone well. The discussions with her American counterparts had been awkward but not unmanageably so. Raisa’s opposite number was an American teacher with neat grey hair and thick oval glasses. Through an interpreter they’d found much to talk about, not out of polite obligation but genuine curiosity. Raisa sensed that he was forced to maintain an air of subdued hostility in order to prove that he was not a Communist sympathizer. During their discussions key Soviet officials were absent, having expressed no desire to watch the upcoming dress rehearsal, excluding themselves from the preparations despite the degree of worldwide exposure it was going to attract.

The elevator doors opened. The operator turned round.

—Your floor, ma’am.

She nodded, heading out, wishing Leo was by her side. His instincts for subterfuge were acute. Alone, she realized how dependent she’d grown on them.

In the corridor, before Raisa could reach her daughters’ room, one of the propaganda officers stepped out in front of her, blocking her way. It was Mikael Ivanov. He was arrogant, handsome and an entirely unnecessary addition to their team. He asked:

—How were the morning meetings?

As tempting as it was to ignore him, Raisa said:

—A success, the concert should go well.

—Were you photographed? I told them no photographs without me present.

—No, I wasn’t photographed. There was no press.

He raised a finger, keen to correct her.

—But you must be careful of what appear to be amateur photographs. Someone might pretend to be your friend, and claim the photograph is for a personal album, and that is merely a trick in order that you lower your guard.

—No one took my photograph.

Why was Mikael Ivanov delaying her with his unnecessary questions? Raisa moved off before he could say anything else, reaching her daughters’ room and knocking. Zoya opened the door. The television was on in the background. Raisa glanced about the room.

—Where’s Elena?

—She went swimming.

Instinctively Raisa looked over her shoulder only to discover Mikael watching her with inexplicable concentration.